


Calling Home

by LadyFeste



Series: The Hungry City [10]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: /slaps fic/ you could fit so much foreshadowing in here, Angst, Batfamily (DCU), Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce Wayne is a Metahuman, Bruce apparently has beef with Australia now, Fluff, Gen, Humor, More Characters Tagged as they Appear, Stand Alone, at least it could stand alone probs but it would Raise Some Questions, we said these acts would be Thematic not at all Chronological
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23422096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFeste/pseuds/LadyFeste
Summary: A collection of one shots centered around select phone calls, from various children back to Bruce it the manor. Because sometimes, whatever else is wrong, the family needs to talk to their dad.
Series: The Hungry City [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1378894
Comments: 16
Kudos: 177





	1. The Middle of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, when I say we have a timeline I mean we workshopped this universe for two and a half yeARS before we started writing anything and we've got an in depth timeline of events that starts at 1932 and ends in 2143, although we'll only be writing into 2060 or so, ideally. So this fic is gonna be doing some jumping around. Likely not all the way this chapter does. We do have several calls planned and they'll be published either when we finish them or when it would have the greatest narrative impact. Enjoy!

_1994_

The house was too empty, and Bruce couldn’t sleep.

Alfred had gone to bed long ago, as was his habit on nights where Bruce didn’t patrol, and as much as he’d have liked to take out some of his frustration on some muggers or goons, he knew very well his head wasn’t in it tonight. Distractions could get you killed even on ordinary patrols, and Bruce did try to avoid that when possible. With Alfred abed and Dick out of the house...possibly forever, the only sounds echoing through the halls were floorboards settling and the ticking of clocks scattered throughout the manor. 

After tossing and turning under the covers for an hour or two, Bruce elected to take to his study. Alfred wouldn’t approve, but with the argument playing over and over in his head, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He may as well get some work done. The board at WE was always complaining about his general disregard for deadlines; perhaps he could pull ahead of the workload.

He could not. The impromptu work session quickly devolved into rhythmically tapping a pen against his desk in harmony with the second hand of the grandfather clock while staring at the wall. He was considering rising to pace, for variety’s sake, when the study phone rang. 

A quick glance at the clock confirmed the time—close to two thirty in the morning. Bruce raised an eyebrow at the ringing phone before checking caller ID. When he saw the name, he picked up instantly. “Dick. Is something wrong? Are you hurt?”

There was a short, stiff pause. “No, B. I’m fine.”

Bruce’s shoulders relaxed and his heart settled. “Oh. Good. Okay.” The silence that followed instantly became awkward. The last time they spoke, some little less than twelve hours ago, there had been a lot of screaming. “...do you need anything?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Dick sighed over the phone. “I shouldn’t have called.”

“Don’t hang up,” Bruce said, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “...why did you call?”

“...I couldn’t sleep.”

He kept his voice light. “Neither could I.” 

“...it’s just...we’ve never not...talked before bed before. It was...weird.”

Bruce chuckled quietly. “...yeah, it was.” Even when he’d spent the night at other kids’ houses growing up, he’d snuck off to call and say goodnight. The silence stretched on again, and the thought of never getting another goodnight call again struck him like lightning, the quiet growing terrifying. “Dick—if there’s anything I said—“ 

“I don’t wanna talk about the fight,” Dick cut him off, sounding stern and flat, and he wished he was there watching him talk, because he couldn’t tell what Dick was thinking or feeling, not like this. “I don’t wanna talk about it and I don’t wanna see you. Not yet.”

“Yet?” Bruce asked, latching onto whatever hope he could find. 

Dick huffed into the receiver, making him wince. “If I see you, I’m gonna forgive you. I won’t be able to _not_ forgive you. But the feelings aren’t going to go away, and we’re just gonna end up fighting again, maybe worse. I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“I don’t either,” Bruce whispered. “What feelings?”

“I’m just—confused. I’m too old to be your son, but I’ve never been anything else. I need to figure out what I want and how to be a person without you. I think I just need to—to be _mad_ for a while, and think, and figure some stuff out, and I can’t be mad around you.”

He pushed the initial heartbreak away and told himself it was _normal_ —Bruce has left home at seventeen himself, and under much worse conditions than this. “Okay. Whatever you need, Dick.”

“...okay.”

“Too old to be my sidekick.”

“What?”

“Too old to be Robin, maybe. You’re never going to outgrow being my son.”

There was a sniffing sound and an exasperated chuckle. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, B.”

Maybe he was wrong, maybe the phone was easier—he found himself swallowing the overwhelming urge to say _I love you, Dick, and I always will_. It felt too much like pressure to forgive. He cleared his throat instead. “So your team, you’re calling yourself the Titans? Tell me about them.”

Dick sighed in a way that Bruce told himself was not _grateful._ “Well, I already know Wally, and he’s excited about the whole thing. Which is great, because Zatanna’s still acting really weird…”

* * *

_1999_

Bruce woke up grumpy and confused, a line of drool connecting his mouth to his pillow. He looked at the alarm clock out of habit--close to three. Patrol had ended at one that night, meaning he’d been out less than an hour and a half. What had woken him, anyway?

He sat up, rubbing his eyes and trying to pull his thoughts together. What--the phone. The chunky nokia mobile on the other side of the room. It was ringing. At three. 

Bruce groaned and struggled his way out of bed, trying to remember if Dick had been scheduled for a night shift. Surely if something had happened to him, he or whoever was breaking news to him would call the home line. Not many people had Bruce’s personal cell number, new as it was. Caller ID was no use--the number was coming up unregistered, which set off a few alarm bells. Bruce answered it, feeling suddenly more awake. “Hello?” 

A tinny, sheepish young voice rattled in his ear, sounding younger than it should have. “B. Hey.” 

“...Tim?” 

“Yeah, it’s me.” 

“What’s up?” Bruce asked cautiously. This was a _good_ thing, he told himself--he’d been working hard to get Timothy to open up after the horrible way he’d treated him when the boy first became Robin. If he was calling now, this was a good step. He thought back to the last time they’d talked. “How’s Japan?” 

“Oh, it’s...it’s fine. Interesting.” 

“That’s it? Just fine? You’ve been there a week now, right?” Stephanie was pulling Robin duty at the moment, and although they’d gotten more accustomed to each other, Bruce would be much happier when Tim was back home--in Gotham, back in Gotham, he reminded himself. Timothy wasn’t _his,_ and even if he could have been, he didn’t think Tim would want the manor as his home. 

“Yessir. Two more weeks to go.” 

“Have you done anything exciting? You didn’t go over many of your travel plans with me, but I’m pretty sure I remember you were looking forward to seeing--” He bit off a yawn. “--Mt. Fuji.” 

A short pause--none of the slow breathing or sighs of Dick, nor any of Jason’s little hums or nonverbal tics. Tim was as quiet over the phone as he was in person. “My parents have been pretty busy with the dig,” he said, in short, apologetic tones that made Bruce wince. “Haven’t gotten out much.” 

“The dig then. Must be--really cool to see an archeological dig happening. Have they uncovered anything?” He was less than successful about hiding the yawn at the end of that sentence, and the sound seemed to snap Tim out of whatever mood he had been in. 

“Oh, g-d, Bruce, it has to be the middle of the night there. I don’t know what I was thinking--”

“Tim, it’s--”

“I didn’t even think about the timezones, and this is an international call. It’s gonna be so expensive--” 

“It’s not like I can’t afford it--” 

“I’m sorry, just forget I called, I’ll hang--” 

“Tim,” Bruce said in his Batman voice, and Tim stopped babbling in an instant. He added, softer now that he had Tim’s attention, “It’s alright. I don’t mind. It’s good to hear from you. Feels like it’s been longer than a week.” 

“...Yeah. Kinda.” 

“...You haven’t been out of the hotel room, have you?”

“...No. But the dig has been taking up a lot of their time, and it’s really not a place for kids. I’d just break something.” 

Bruce tilted the phone away from his face so his sigh didn’t travel. “You’ve at least had the chance to go out and get sushi?” 

“Dad says we can do that tonight.” 

“How often are they coming back in?” 

“They spent last night at the dig site.” He sounded like every word in that sentence was being pulled from him with a meat hook, and the answer to the unasked question hit Bruce all at once. Tim was _lonely._ He was calling because he was _lonely._

This was more than a good sign. It was a _breakthrough_. 

“That’s a shame,” Bruce said carefully, thinking as fast as he could. “Sounds like maybe you don’t have a lot to occupy your time.”

“Not really. Except practicing my Japanese by watching TV. I’ve been using the hotel gym to keep up my training when I can.” 

Bruce yawned again. He really shouldn’t. “...Do you have access to a computer over there?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And the internet?”

“Yeah? Do you want me to do something?” 

He _should not_ encourage this thirteen-year-old child, already prone to wandering and danger, to walk the streets of an unfamiliar country _alone_ when he only had a basic grasp of the language. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to wire you some money and email you an itinerary. You’re going to see Japan.” 

“...What?”

“I’ve got some old acquaintances you can check up on for me who will be more than happy to give you some tips and introduce you to some new concepts, or some training. We’ll keep excursions short so your parents don’t find out you’ve been exploring on your own, and I’ll expect daily reports of what you’ve accomplished.” He’d have to make sure to work in some activities that didn’t center around work, Tim would never choose _entertainment_ for himself. 

“...Are you sure?” Tim asked, working a world of false-hope into the three words. Bruce smiled sadly to himself, ignoring the ache in his chest. 

“It’s no trouble. And with luck, it’ll keep you _out_ of trouble. I’ll email you the details in a few hours. You’ll start tomorrow, your time.”

“...Okay. I can do that.” 

“Good.” Bruce paused, pleased at the change in Tim’s tone already. He grabbed a pencil without too many nibble marks in the wood and a sticky pad and began to make notes on this itinerary he was going to have to cobble together at the last minute now. “Do you want to hear how patrol went tonight?” 

“...Yeah. I would.” 

“Stephanie nearly threw me into Killer Croc’s mouth head first. It was an accident, of course--I’m pretty sure, anyway…” 

* * *

_2000_

Bruce staggered out of the grandfather clock, trembling like a newborn fawn. He was alone, the study empty. Alfred had sent Dick to bed when he came back an hour or more ago, and was likely hiding somewhere in his part of the house, processing. He moved to his desk and leaned against it, grateful for the support, trying to ignore his skin still itching under his very expensive sweats. Water dripped from his hair onto some files that were probably important. He should move. He should go to bed, or find something to eat, or attempt to meditate. It seemed almost impossible to just push himself away from the desk just now, much less anything else. 

He took a deep breath and looked around the room. The only light came from the moon reflecting through the window and the little blinking red blip of the answering machine. Bruce blinked down at the phone, trying to focus on it, on anything. Everything had seemed to happen so quickly, it was hard to parse now that it was over. 

Jason was back. 

Everything was _wrong._

He couldn’t order his thoughts without meditation, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to center himself tonight. Sleep seemed absurd, the idea of food turned his stomach, and he couldn’t seem to make his muscles move the way they were supposed to. He didn’t even know if Jason was still _alive_ anymore, not after the batarang had come so close to--if he’d slipped--

Bruce lifted his hand as if it weighed a ton and covered the blinking light with one finger, lifting it up and lowering it again in the same steady pattern as the blinks. On, off, on, off. Time passed, he wasn’t sure how much in this state, but enough that his eyes adjusted better to the darkness and his head settled a little. His finger drifted down to the _messages_ button. 

“ _You have three new messages,”_ the soothing electronic voice said. _“First unheard message._ ” 

_“Bet you’re not even gonna listen to this, are you, old man?_ ” 

The voice that spoke knocked the breath out of Bruce. It was disguised somehow, but that hardly mattered. He would know it anywhere. He fell more than sat in the chair at his desk, his head falling forward into his hands. _“You definitely won’t know who it is, seeing as you_ clearly _wasted no time forgetting about me. Hope you’re equally unattached to your new Boy Wonder. I know he survived last time, but I might not be so merciful again._

_“You almost died tonight, Batman. Car bomb under the Batmobile. It was too easy. Maybe you shouldn’t be so reliant on your car’s fancy security system. Only reason you’re still alive is I wanna give you one more chance. Screw it up, and I’ll kill you face to face. I want you to suffer. Like I did.”_

Bruce dragged his shaking hands over his face and drew in a breath. _“July 3rd, eleven thirteen PM,”_ the computer said helpfully. Three days ago. They had all been so busy they’d barely left the cave in three days. Would hearing this have changed anything, prepared anyone any better? 

_No,_ he thought. It wouldn’t have given him the words he’d needed, the words he didn’t have. He hadn’t had the chance to recover when the machine was chiming _“Second unheard message._ ” 

_“This is it. Tonight’s the night. I’m tired of putting it off anymore. You need to_ pay _for what you’ve done._ ” There was a shuffling sound over the phone, and the same voice, further back, as if talking to someone else. _“No, shut up. I’m ready._ ” 

The glowing green eyes had made it so painfully obvious that Jason was pit mad, but Bruce hadn’t been sure of the extent until now. It sounded like he was hearing voices. 

_“You’ve got one last chance to redeem yourself, Bat. You make your choice, or all of us die. I’m coming for you._ ” There was a click, and the answering machine helpfully chimed, _“July 5th, ten forty-five PM.”_

Bruce squinted up at the grandfather clock. It was four forty in the morning now. He drew a shuddering breath, closing his eyes tight. What Jason had asked...Bruce _couldn’t_ do it. He couldn’t explain, not while Jason was--like this, he’d never understand, and he couldn’t _do_ that to Jason. It would _break_ him, if there was anything left as it was. Killing the Joker would have only made things _worse,_ but how did he _say_ that when he could barely explain himself? When Jason was out of his mind? 

Perhaps, if it hadn’t been the Joker, if it had been _anyone_ else, for his _son_ , he would…

Bruce wasn’t ready to explore that part of himself just now. 

And the answering machine wasn’t going to give him the opportunity. 

“ _Third unheard message._ ” 

The voice wasn’t disguised anymore, and it was _worse._ The breathing was labored and thick and _wet_ , and the cough that broke off before he began speaking broke Bruce’s heart. _“...You made...your choice,_ ” Jason said, sounding so angry, so _tired. “How does it feel? Knowing where your priorities are now? How does it feel to know you...you will never know rest as long as...I’m alive. I will...I’m...Bruce,_ why? _What did I do? Did you ever even…”_

There was an almost violent hitch in the voice, a few more beats of labored breathing, and the sound of a phone slamming into a receiver. “ _July 6th, four oh eight AM.”_

He was still alive. As of half an hour ago, still alive. Bruce breathed in slowly, pulled himself to his feet—and promptly collapsed. He missed the chair, wobbly legs taking him all the way down to the floor. Curling up in the leg space under the big oak desk—the same place he used to hide when he played hide and seek with his father—Bruce pressed his face into his arms and started to sob. 

* * *

_2005_

He was still awake when the blackberry started ringing on his bedside table. Bruce sighed and lowered his book, glaring at the phone. The alarm clock showed midnight, and he knew for _certain_ there were no emergencies tonight. Dick had a concussion and was stuck at home with Babs keeping a strict eye on him. Cass was in Hong Kong for the next two weeks. Jason was about six doors down—he had been hit with all of about a half dose of fear gas the night before and hadn’t wanted to take the potential of a violent episode home just in case. He’d been fast asleep at eleven when Bruce had gleefully tucked him in and finished the sappy goodnight text he’d fallen asleep in the middle of writing. Damian was lying on his stomach finishing some homework while Titus slept on top of his back, last Bruce had checked, and Tim was—well, still working, probably, but he was in his old room and Bruce was happy to call that progress. Even Steph was at the manor for the night, staying over from a cooking lesson with Alfred. 

There was no reason anyone should be calling his personal cell at midnight. _Especially_ , Bruce thought as he picked up the phone and checked the caller, not _Duke._ Who should have been sleeping in the south wing.

“Duke,” he said rather than a hello, trying not to sound irritated. “Did you need something?”

“I—uh.” Duke gave a short inhale. “I just wanted to ask you something.” 

Bruce raised an eyebrow, smiling just a little despite the interruption of a rare universal night off. “And you couldn’t just walk down three hallways and knock on my door?”

“No. I dunno if I’d be able to keep up the nerve.”

“That sounds serious. Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s fine! It’s more than fine, really.”

Bruce waited through the soft shuffling noises for Duke to work up to his point. He’d only known the teenager for a little more than a year now, but this lack of confidence was odd. Come to think of it, he’d been behaving oddly lately in general, but had insisted nothing was wrong every time he was asked. He also knew by now that unlike Dick or Damian, he couldn’t be _led_ into talking. He was more like Jason. You just had to wait him out. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Duke said slowly. Something crinkled at the other end of the line, like he was playing with something to ease his nerves. Probably folding paper. He tended to fiddle with things when he was nervous, and since Jason and Damian had taught him some origami, little paper figures had been popping up whenever something was on Duke’s mind. “Were you...serious?”

“Oh, probably. I usually am. What about this time?”

“A while back. About...about wanting to...to adopt me.”

Bruce sat up straighter, a grin erupting across his face. “Of _course_ I was.”

“Yeah, uh...I was just kind of wonderin’ if that offer was, was maybe still on the table?”

“If that’s something you’ve decided you want, then yes, absolutely. I would be _honored_ to adopt you.” It was a fight between him and his muscles to keep his feet still, but the hand not holding the phone waved a little in excitement. 

“Okay,” Duke said, his voice growing suspiciously wet. “And—you’re not just saying that cuz everybody keeps insisting I was Robin for a hot minute?”

“No, hon. You’re already a part of this family, and you always will be. We’ll talk about the details in the morning, okay?”

There was a pause and a breathy chuckle, and Bruce could almost _see_ Duke nodding at the phone and laughing at himself. “Yeah. That’ll be great. I—thanks, B.”

“Duke?”

“Yeah?”

“Is it alright if I come down and hug you now?”

“...yeah, that would be great.” Duke laughed, the sound light in Bruce’s ears. He laughed too.

“I’m gonna hang up.” 

“Right. See you soon?”

“Definitely.” Bruce ended the call and dropped the phone onto the table, flinging back the blankets. He had to see his son.

* * *

_2010_

“Batman, you’ve got a call.”

“I’ve got a _what?”_ Bruce asked, driving his fist into the face of another of Penguin’s henchmen.

“A phone call,” Oracles voice said, tinged with something Bruce couldn’t focus enough to identify with another goon yanking on the cape. He jumped and sent a roundhouse kick in that general direction, pleased when his foot met bone. 

“ _Please_ tell me it’s not Catwoman again.”

“No. It’s Robin.”

“I ain’t callin’ anybody,” Harper protested in his ear. “I’m sitting on this rooftop, makin no noise and pretending I don’t exist, _as promised._ Which I think, for the record, is some bullshit, cuz you said I could fight if Penguin didn’t show up himself.”

“Five more minutes,” Bruce growled, flipping another goon over his shoulder. 

“Right. Not that Robin. Ex-Robin. He says it’s urgent, but he’s out of costume.”

“What time is it in Switzerland?”

“It’s about eight, eight thirty in the morning.”

“What the hell could he possibly have gotten into?” Bruce said. A fire broke out across the street. “Ro _bin_.”

“ _What?_ If it’s about that fire, I did _not_ start it. This time.”

He’d have to be satisfied with that for now. “Can you see if it’s going to spread?”

“Not from this angle. I don’t see why I _can’t_ fight if Penguin shows. He’s gotta be like, a million years old by now.”

“Ex-Robin still on hold, B,” Oracle reminded him. “And the faster he finds a new name, the better.”

Bruce pursed his lips and stamped down on someone’s wrist as they reached for a gun. “Who’s close enough that they can take care of this while I take this call?” It was sort of a moot question. Only two heroes remained in Gotham just now. 

“Signal’s closer, but Red Hood will probably get there faster. Signal’s dragging his feet because it’s his night off.” Bruce could just make out some muffled argument on the other comm line. “Don’t blame _me,_ blame Batman’s rotten luck. We didn’t _know_ Penguin was out tonight.” 

“He’s not out,” Harper said, the pout obvious in her voice. “He hasn’t shown up yet and it’s _been_ five minutes. Lemme come down.” 

G-d, Bruce was getting too old for this. He was about to argue when a motorcycle engine roared into hearing range. He let out a sigh of relief. “Soon as Hood gets here,” he snapped to Harper. “Oracle, make sure Signal shows up. Don’t leave those two alone together.” 

“Roger,” Oracle said dryly, at the same time patching Jason’s comm into the channel, just in time for a jubilant _“It’s party time, motherfuckas!”_

Bruce resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Harper’s answering whoop and grappled up to the roof. In the relative quiet, he took a deep breath and said “Alright Oracle, patch me through. And don’t eavesdrop.” 

Barbara snorted. There was a click, a moment of silence, and Damian’s voice flooded his comms. “It’s _about_ time, Father, I have been on _hold_ with _Barbara_ for nearly ten minutes!”

“Damian, I’m on patrol right now.” 

“That’s _irrelevant._ There’s been some kind of error and I need it fixed.” 

He gave a quick glance around before ducking behind a gargoyle and pulling down the cowl. He already had the start of a headache. “What kind of error?”

“I was _supposed_ to have a room of my _own._ A _single._ Imagine my surprise when I learn some sort of horrible clerical error has put me in a _dorm._ There are _four_ of us.” 

“Ah. I see.” 

“I’ve already spoken to administration, and they said it could take up to _three weeks_ to find the error and correct it. I cannot be expected to _live_ in this _rat’s nest_ for three _weeks_.” 

Bruce ducked his head to hide a smile. “Is it really that bad? Surely if you’ve just moved in--”

“Someone I know only as _Luca_ sprayed half a can of fake cheese into a bag of Doritos, crushed them all together, and started eating the resulting _mess_ with a _spoon_ , Father. There are already clothes _everywhere_ , and _David_ is already expecting to arrange visitation rights with his girlfriend.”

“It’s college, Dami, not a prison.” 

“It may as _well_ be. I’m beginning to reconsider the whole concept of studying _abroad._ If the first _day_ is already managing to fail in so _spectacular_ a manner, I cannot imagine the actual studies will be any better. Surely there’s _some_ school worthy in America.” 

Ah. So that’s what this is about. “Studying in Switzerland was your idea, kid,” he said quietly, leaning back against the gargoyle and ignoring the wild laughter, gunshots, and small explosions echoing up from the street below. “You were really excited about the experience.” 

Damian sniffed in apparent disgust. He was always easier to read, even over the phone, than most of his kids. “I have the right to change my mind.” 

“Yeah, you do. I just want to make sure that’s what you want. It was hard enough getting you out of the country. You know if you come home, you _won’t_ be able to leave again.” 

Silence fell from the other side of the line. “...Ah. Right. I forgot.” 

“I just want to be sure this isn’t just--homesickness.” Silence again. “You’re allowed to miss us. We miss you a lot, even if you haven’t been gone long.” 

“...I’m willing to concede it is a...possibility. But that doesn’t change the fact that I _cannot_ room with others.” 

“Not even just to try it? Might do you good to meet more people.” 

“I’m certain I will meet many people in classes without having to share my entire existence with them. Especially with--potential nighttime activities.” 

“Fair enough,” Bruce admitted. “Tell you what. Why don’t you go ahead and use the emergency credit card to get yourself a hotel room for the next three weeks? Just until the housing situation is resolved. Give yourself time to get used to everything and start classes, and then we’ll see how you stand with wanting to come back home, okay?” 

“...That solution is acceptable.” 

“Good. I know you can do this. Give us a call whenever you want to talk.” 

“I will.” 

“That includes Jason and Tim. They’re going to want to hear from you sometimes too.” 

Damian clicked his tongue disdainfully, and Bruce laughed. “Very well. Thank you, Father.” 

“You’re welcome. I love you.” The next explosion was a little louder and sounded more distinctly Penguin-adjacent. Bruce winced. “Can I go back to patrol now? I think Cobblepot just showed his face, and I really don’t want to leave Jason and a fresh Robin alone without proper adult supervision.” 

“Yes, very well. I love you too.” Damian hung up without a goodbye, and Bruce donned his cowl again. 

“Crisis averted?” Babs asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Great, because Signal ran into a delay and Penguin brought in reinforcements. Tonight just got a lot more interesting.” 

* * *

_2047_

It was official. Bruce _hated_ that assigned ringtone and he would _pay_ Tim to change it for him, pride be damned. Especially at--damn it, one in the morning. He groaned and reached over, fumbling for the cell phone in its charging dock, wincing at the popping and creaking of his aging joints. “Wayne.” 

“ _Bruce!_ I need help!”

Bruce winced and tilted the phone away from his face. “ _How_ can you be so _loud_ when you’re only just whispering?”

“...G-d, you’re so old,” Terry muttered, as if Bruce wouldn’t be able to hear him when everything seemed to be set to a dull shout. He fumbled for volume controls on the side--he knew his hearing wasn’t what it used to be, but he didn’t need it _that_ loud. “ _Please_ just--tell me what to do.” 

“Explain the problem first. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not omniscient.” He had a feeling this was going to be a whole _thing._ Reluctantly, Bruce pulled himself to the edge of his bed and opened a laptop. _Let’s see who’s awake._

“No, but Oracle basically is, and you two are tight. The club’s crawling with chimeras and we’re seconds away from some kind of stick up.” 

“Sounds like you picked a bad night to beg off, huh,” Bruce said, a little smug. 

“ _Bruce_ , c’mon.” 

“Where are you, anyway?” 

“The Pavillion. And before you say anything, I _know,_ but it’s mostly a safe neighborhood and it’s one of Dana’s favorites.” 

“I see. I’m still not sure what you expect me to do about it from the cottage.” 

A hint of a familiar whine creeped into Terry’s voice. “I can’t be _Batman_ right now.” 

“You’re not wearing the suit under your clothes?” 

“I was hoping to get _out of_ the clothes by the end of the night, if you catch my drift.” 

“I do, but disgusting, thanks. You’re too young to be sleeping around.” 

“I’m twenty-one? Wait, that’s _so_ not the point.” 

“And you didn’t sneak into the club before your girlfriend dragged you out and plant a suit somewhere accessible in case of emergencies like this?” 

“ _What?_ You can’t be serious, who _does_ that?” 

“ _I_ did it.” 

“You’re joking.” 

Bruce smiled despite himself. “When have you ever known me to joke?” 

“I’ve seen your old suit, it weighed fifty _extra_ pounds for _absolutely_ no good reason. There’s no way you lugged that thing all over just in _case_.” 

“I did, and you can ask the others for confirmation when you finish fighting off the chimeras in the suit I _know_ you were responsible enough to stash ahead of time.” 

“Bruce. There is no suit.” 

“Guess you’re going to die then.” 

“ _Bruce._ ” 

Bruce cleared his throat to smother a chuckle. “I’m at a computer, looking to see who’s available. _This_ time we’ll bail you out. But you’re getting a lot more training for this kind of scenario after tonight.” He pulled up a chat box with Oracle and got to work. 

“This is ridiculous,” Terry muttered while Bruce typed. “I can’t believe I’m _Batman_ and I’m stuck hiding in a dirty club bathroom while chimeras rob everyone.” 

“I find it harder to believe that whoever paid the chimeras to rob everyone really thinks they’ll get much from the patrons of an establishment like the _Pavillion._ Keep your shirt on, kid, I’m sending Shrike and Fox to your location. They can handle a few chimeras easily.” 

“ _Bruuuuce._ ” 

He wasn’t imagining it. Terry was whining. “What?”

“Shrike’s a _hoodie._ She _is_ going to gossip about pulling the Batman’s bacon out of the fire, and Jason will _not_ let me live down needing a rescue from some souped up _teenagers._ ” 

“Should have thought of that before you asked for a night off or left the suit at home,” Bruce said airily. “And Jason _shouldn’t_ let you live this down. It’s sad and pathetic.” 

Terry groaned. “This is the _worst._ ” 

“Not yet it’s not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Even if Shrike doesn’t gossip. If Flying Fox finds you in there, he’ll just carry you off straight to Cass, and then you’ll have to explain yourself to _her._ ” 

“Oh, _terrific._ She’s gonna call me stupid again.” 

“Mmhm. Oracle says he already knows you’re in distress and he’s been laughing about it for a while now.” 

“ _Hey,_ ” Terry said, the offense in his voice multiplying. “He can’t just _watch_ me when I don’t have the suit on, right?” 

Bruce checked the time and typed a one-handed reply to Oracle--poor Terry’s latest escapades would likely be in the family group chat by now. “What’s that expression the kids used to use? Oh, you _sweet_ summer child.” 

“Damn it, Bruce, they’re already calling me the world’s worst Batman. You don’t have to make it worse.” 

“You interrupt an old man’s beauty sleep because you made the terrible decision to go to a nightclub in the Narrows on a slow Wednesday, you pay the price.” 

“I didn’t get into this gig to be continuously insulted by a bunch of middle aged superheroes and their overgrown dumb sidekicks.” 

“It’s how we show we care,” Bruce said fondly. “Don’t worry, Terry, they used to roast me all the _time_ when I was still in the costume.” 

“...Yeah, well.” He sounded at least a little more cheerful. “That’s a nice vote of confidence, I guess.” 

“I don’t know if I would go _that_ far.” On the other side of the line, Bruce picked up the tell tale sound of gunfire. “Ah. Shrike has arrived?” 

“I think so, yeah. I’m gonna go play victim. Last thing I need is for them to find me supposedly cowering in a bathroom.” 

“Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing though?” 

“ _Bruuuuuce._ ” 

“Goodnight, Terence,” Bruce said. He ended the call and closed the laptop. 

He’d be dead for good before any of his children let him get any _g-ddamned sleep._


	2. Long Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas calls from Hong Kong

Tim’s finger curled around the spiral telephone cord, grateful that Bruce hadn’t gotten around to replacing it with a cordless. It gave him something to do while Cas sorted out her thoughts. He leaned his elbows forward on the smooth wood of Bruce’s desk, eyes drifting over the book titles in the bookcase that covered the entrance to the Batcave. When he couldn’t make anything out, he looked instead to the pictures on the desk--including a candid of him. He wasn’t sure where that had come from or who had taken it. Probably Alfred. “Good to keep talking?” he asked when the shuffling noises on the other end went quiet. 

Neither of them cared for phone calls much--she could only make them on some days, when the words felt close to the surface, as she’d signed to him once, and he wasn’t always able to tell what people really  _ meant  _ through just their voices. And she still had to take breaks sometimes, when the calls went long. He liked it. It meant more time for him to sort out what they needed to talk about next, and how he would say it so she could understand. When he and Cas called each other, she tended to over-exaggerate her non-verbal noises, and he mirrored her out of habit instead of being silent as his mother had drilled him to be. It was a lot easier that way than trying to talk to each other like others would. 

Like that little affirmative hum that he could have sworn he could hear her smiling into. He smiled back. “Okay. So we talked about me. What’s going on with you? Is vigilante stuff going well?” 

“Yes,” she said, her voice smooth. She hummed again, and it felt  _ smug _ this time. “I’m  _ new.”  _

He took a moment to parse that. “You mean Hong Kong has never had a vigilante before?” 

“Yes, that.” 

Tim snorted. “You’re a terror on the city, huh?” 

“Yes,” she said, obviously grinning from ear to ear, and he laughed a little. 

“Don’t be too hard on them. Have you come up with a name yet?” This time the hum sounded like the ones she gave at home when she wanted to change the subject and was stalling. “Cas. You can’t go out without a code name. I guess you could be Orphan again. It  _ was  _ your name.” 

He could practically hear her nose wrinkling through the phone. It must have been the way her breathing changed. “No,” she said, though it really wasn’t necessary. “ _ Not  _ Orphan. Orphan is…” She hummed, and he picked at the coils of the phone cord, letting her think. Fabric rustled again, briefly. It took her nearly two minutes to speak again. “ _ Lostalonebroken. _ Not Orphan now. Just--hurt.” 

“Good,” Tim said, pursing his lips and tugging a little harder at the cord than he meant to. It  _ was  _ good to hear that despite being not normal by any definition, and the enormity of her grief, Cas didn’t feel like  _ that  _ anymore. He cleared his throat. “Babs took  _ Batgirl  _ away, you know, but nobody said anything about Bat _ woman.  _ If you wanted to stick it to her a little.” 

_ “No!” _ Cas said, almost too quickly, and even Tim had no trouble hearing the disgust twisting her tone. “ _ Bad. _ ” 

“Okay, okay. Well. You could always join us birds. Uh. In the Kryptonian legend,  _ Flamebird  _ is the counterpoint to  _ Nightwing. _ If you wanna stick with the theme.” It was a good name, but he didn’t think she’d bite. She and Dick didn’t have that kind of connection. The sigh that echoed in his ears a moment later confirmed that. “Alright, well don’t knock us just yet. There’s all kinds of birds with cool names that you could be. Raptor? Raptor’s really menacing. Sparrowhawk. Um...You could be Chickadee, if you want people to underestimate you, and you wouldn’t have to change your costume that much. Crow. Blackbird?” 

“Not a bird,” she answered, sighing into his ear again, more forlorn than disapproving this time. 

“C’mon, Cas. You’re basically a bird.” 

“No. Not Robin. Not a bird.” 

And alright, that was a fair point. Robin--Batman too, to varying extents--was all about  _ legacies,  _ and Cas had always been some degrees removed from the legacy that Robin had become attached to. She really  _ wasn’t  _ a bird, and Tim didn’t think she ever could be. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t carry a connection to her distant family. 

For the sake of  _ legacies, _ he could always offer the name  _ Spoiler _ . It hung between the two of them, unspoken and available, but speaking it felt like sacrilege. Only  _ one  _ person could possibly be Spoiler, and she was  _ gone.  _ If she wasn’t, they may not have even been having this conversation. Cas might still be in Gotham, might still be Batgirl. Or maybe she’d have left anyway, and Steph would have been beside him, yelling suggestions over his head. 

Time huffed through his nose in a way that he hoped sounded play-exasperated, and not genuinely annoyed or like his stomach was being dragged up through his chest from the sudden wash of mourning. “Okay. What do you think you should be called, if you’re gonna be so picky?” 

“Batman,” she said, quick and firm, with a deeply satisfied weight to the tone. 

Tim cackled, and only felt a little bad about it when she snorted in irritation. “You can’t be  _ Batman _ , Cas.  _ Bruce  _ is Batman.” 

“Over there. I’m Batman here.” 

“That would just be confusing. Besides, you’re a  _ girl! _ ” 

“No,” she growled, her voice dropping gravelly and low in an approximation of Bruce’s cowl growl. “I’m  _ Batman.”  _

He laughed again, which turned out to be the right response, as she started giggling in his ear. “I am  _ vengeance.  _ I am the  _ night, _ ” she said, still growling, and the impression was close enough to Bruce that it set him off again. “Better at crime fighting than  _ no ass Superman. _ ” Tim lost it, making her dissolve into laughter as well. Dick had shown him and Steph the video of Bruce’s truth-serum induced vent, claiming it was a vital part of training and “definitely  _ not  _ just because it’s an inside Robin joke that I’m going to be depressed if I can’t reference again,” and Cas had eventually seen it as well. Tim knew very well from previous conversations that she didn’t really understand--the words went way too fast--but she knew dropping a line was a good way to lighten a mood. 

Maybe he hadn’t been as good at hiding his grief as he’d thought. 

When they settled down again, he untwisted his fingers from the telephone cord and rubbed a few tears away. “Okay, seriously though. You can’t take names that someone else is currently using. Batman is out of the question.” She gave another long, forlorn sigh. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be a bat though.” 

“Oh?” Cloth rustled a good deal more than it had before, as if she was getting ready to sit or stand. Or maybe twisting into some kind of contortionist’s pose to relax, or twisting out of it. With Cas, you never knew. She wasn’t as bad as Dick, but her definition of  _ relaxing  _ didn’t look like anyone else’s Tim knew. 

Tim hummed, thinking. “There’s no other legacy bat names, but you’re still a bat. Maybe you could make your own. How about Batkid? Or--or Caver? Or we could find a species of bat, I’m sure there’s--hold on.” Tim had been using Bruce’s personal computer for school work while waiting for Cas to call, so it was still open despite the dark screen. He shook the mouse and logged back in under his profile, pulling up google as soon as it opened. “Okay, hold on just a sec. I’m looking up some stuff. Okay, Brown Bat? Bulldog Bat? That’s not really anything, is it. Hoary Bat--okay, that wouldn’t work. Ghost-faced bat could be shortened to Ghost Bat, that could be something. Grey Bat, Silver Bat, Yellow Bat--there’s a lot of color species, you could just add any color, I guess. Any of that feel more right?” 

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then-- “Black Bat?” she asked hesitantly. 

He smiled. “Perfect. I love it. Welcome to the family cave, Black Bat.” 

She sighed softly, an unmistakably happy sound this time, and hung up without another word. Tim dropped the phone back onto the receiver. She did that sometimes, but it didn’t bother him. They’d said what they needed. He tilted his head at the google search and cleared it, looking up where he could buy postcards with bats on them. Cas would think that was funny. 


	3. A Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is the one doing the calling for a change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing "NaNo" and by nano this year i mean i'm writing every day but in Wildly different projects. The whole project this year is Just about getting back into writing every day. Here's today's set of words, very different from where Calling Home usually goes. We'll allow it, because we also like to mix up some scenes of the future where everything is Better with the "present" which is still a Mess. It won't be rough forever!

2007

Clark’s satellite phone rang so loudly it rattled the table. Sometimes he could have sworn the thing got louder on more urgent calls, but with his wife  _ urgent  _ was wildly variable. He sighed and excused himself from his conversation with Hawkgirl to fly over and answer it. “Lois, if this is about anything less than a stop-the-presses story or a desperate rescue--” 

“The desperate rescue this time, please, if you don’t mind,” came a dry voice Clark would know anywhere. A  _ male  _ voice. Shouted through what sounded like a wind tunnel. 

“Oh,  _ fuck,” _ Clark said, fully aware he sounded more angry than nervous, and started flying at top speed toward the hangar of the space station. 

“ _ Language,  _ Superman,” Bruce yelled, and it sounded like something exploded--Clark could only hear it over the massive amount of interference because of his super hearing. 

He was out of the Watchtower and reaching terminal velocity toward earth in seconds. “Stop cracking jokes. Where are you, what’s going on?” 

“Well. I may have gotten  _ slightly  _ kidnapped, by accident this time. Decided I wasn’t keen on sticking around to find out who ordered it and stepped out.” 

“Bruce.” 

“Funny story, it turns out to have been an unmanned aircraft I stepped out of.” 

_ “Bruce. _ ” That explained the wind. “ _ Fuck.  _ Okay, hold on, I need a few seconds.” 

“Oh, go ahead, I only--” Clark lowered the phone, not interested in whatever last word his best friend intended on having and not keen on the phone burning up on reentry. Getting back under the atmosphere was never a dignified flight plan anyway, and ran much smoother when he curled himself into roughly the shape of an asteroid. He clutched the phone to the middle of his chest to protect it, and flew straight  _ down  _ as fast as he possibly could. 

Reentry was a  _ bitch,  _ and it always took longer than he wanted it to. Thankfully not  _ that  _ long. He wasn’t nearly as delicate as a spacecraft or an astronaut, but he wasted valuable time getting back to earth as it was. He was going to  _ murder  _ Bruce. He uncurled when he plummeted through a cloud, the familiar horrible feeling of being  _ suddenly completely soaked  _ signalling it was safe to move again. “Alright, back on earth.” 

“Great,” Bruce shouted in his ear, and he immediately started trying to hone in on one of a few voices he could pick out in a crowd of thousands, flying at close to top speed to get a better “signal” on his voice. “I only called because I figured you’d like the chance to play hero. You can come get me now, or you can come get me in about...fifty minutes, when I wake up.” 

“I ought to make you scrape  _ yourself  _ off the ground,” Clark barked, heart pounding in his ears. 

“That would be difficult to do, since I’m over water.” 

He took a hard left to stay over the ocean--he couldn’t even tell which one, he was too distracted. “ _ Fuck,  _ Bruce, you couldn’t lead with that?” 

“America’s boy scout.” 

“ _ Fuck you. _ Where are you?

“I don’t know. Over water. I couldn’t tell which direction the drone was pointing. I’ve got about forty seconds to impact.” There was a pause, not silent with the roar of the freefall, but close enough. “Follow the sound of my voice, I guess?” 

“Fuck. Start shouting. I’m hanging up.” Clark just crushed the phone in his fist and let it drop, electing to feel guilty about littering later. Images of Bruce’s body exploding on impact flooded his mind, despite his attempts to focus all his attention on listening for his voice. There would be--barely anything left. Would that put him down for good? There  _ would  _ be blood. If he landed in an ocean, that would attract sharks, and those would still be around when he woke up again. Whales, large fish,  _ sharks again, _ anything could pick him off in the water, and an animal dragging his body who knew  _ how  _ many miles meant he’d just be that much harder to find. Even without predatory dangers, a human could only tread water for so long before exhaustion lead to drowning, and that was without considering  _ temperature.  _ Bruce could wake from hypothermia, sure, but if he lost fingers or a whole limb to frostbite, that wouldn’t grow back. 

And if he was suited, that wouldn’t matter, because his Batsuit carried extra weight around the shoulders, chest, and hips. Bruce would  _ sink _ , and that meant potentially hundreds of drowning deaths while Clark contacted Arthur and set half the Atlantean army out looking for him. 

At twenty seconds to impact, he heard it--a wordless shout echoing across endless Indian Ocean. Clark skidded to a halt and bolted sharply to the south, dropping to fly low, the water rippling into harsh waves around him as he flew toward the noise. No land visible for a thousand miles. The shout grew louder and louder as he drew closer, and Clark finally forced himself to slow down. He’d kill Bruce just as sure as the ocean would if he bowled into him at sound-barrier-breaking speeds. 

He caught Bruce a scant fifty feet from the waves, catching him with one arm around his back and one tucked under his knees. Although he’d slowed considerably, the impact was still enough to force all the air from Bruce’s lungs, and he heard the man gasp for air in his ear as he dragged his arms around Clark’s neck. Clark continued to slow down, but gradually, giving Bruce time to adjust. He released a long, shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and clutched Bruce so tightly the kevlar creaked. For a long minute he allowed himself to just hold Bruce and breathe, adrenaline still up despite the panic slowly easing. He wanted to collapse, and Bruce probably needed to as well. After hovering in midair for a few seconds more, he turned his hearing toward the nearest sounds of mass human activity. 

At a more reasonable speed, one that would temporarily allow for conversation before he sped up again. “Are you alright?” he asked, and resisted the urge to wince. Residual panic drove his voice up nearly half an octave. 

Bruce said nothing for quite a while, but Clark didn’t push. They’d been friends (brothers) (platonic soulmates, depending on who you asked and what day of the week it was) for far too long and knew each other far, far too well for him to expect an immediate answer. Bruce under pressure was calm and in control. Bruce out of control or under panic either went wordy and formal or completely nonverbal. The phone call had been the first, and the subtle shaking of the man in his arms suggested the second. The panic lingered despite the humor from before. He would answer in his own time. 

They turned to fly into a warm headwind when Bruce finally drew a trembling breath. “I’m...uninjured,” he said into Clark’s ear, not even bothering to protest the indignity of the bridal hold. “I think, anyway. Thank you. Nice catch.” 

“It’s not too late for me to decide to drop you,” Clark said, forcing levity in his tone. 

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.” That sounded better, a little less frenzied. Clark gave a little sigh of relief. 

“You’re buying me a new sat phone. I dropped mine.” 

“Dropped mine too, I think.” 

“I’m guessing you blew up the drone?” 

“It was full of bombs. If it blew up before it reached whatever city it was pointed at, that has nothing to do with me. Shouldn’t have been full of bombs.” He tilted his head up imperiously, a move mostly ruined by the fact that no one was around to see it except Clark, who could still feel him shaking. 

“Oh, my mistake.” 

“That was why I had to jump, anyway. Cape only slowed my descent so much before the wind speed took it. Need to retool that clasp.” Bruce buried his face in Clark’s shoulder with as much subtlety as he could manage. 

Clark ghosted a kiss into his hair before he could pull away again. “And why were you kidnapped by an unmanned aircraft?” 

“Because it was the first thing I could hide in at the base in Spain, and I fell asleep after a recent head injury.” 

“I thought you said you weren’t injured.” He paused. “...Or did you  _ fall asleep? _ ” 

Bruce huffed. “What? No, not that time. It’s fine. I’m not injured  _ from the crash. _ ” 

“Fuck you, Bruce.”

“I can’t wait to tell Flash I got  _ six  _ SuperFucks in a single day.” 

“I might just drop you after all.” 

“No you won’t. Not like you can look at it while we’re airborne. I’ll be fine til we land.” He paused. “Where are we going?” 

Clark narrowed his eyes, listening harder. “Uh. Australia, I think.” 

“Oh,  _ g-d _ , never mind. Drop me.” When Clark barked a slightly hysterical laugh, he growled. “I can’t  _ handle  _ Aussies after the day I’ve had, Clark. Don’t make me do that.” 

Recalling the last time Bruce had to correspond with an Australian hero, Clark took pity. “How about I redirect to New Zealand?” 

“...Fine. But we have to take pictures for Tim, Jason, and Barbara. The rest of them won’t care.” 

“You’re very bold to assume I’ll fly you around to Hobbiton to play tourist instead of just dumping your ass at an airport and flying back to the Watchtower.” Bruce just hummed in his ear, knowing just as well as Clark did that sudden reentries from naked space made him woozy and he didn’t like to travel far after one,  _ and  _ that he would need some sun time to recharge from spending this much energy. He was already starting to feel the drag, and it wasn’t only from the exhaustion of a sustained six minutes of panic. 

  
For a moment he  _ did  _ consider dropping Bruce into the ocean. Just a little bit. He decided against it. He’d just have to be the one to fish him back out again. 


End file.
